


Just One Moment

by jayiin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Erotica, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, International Confederation of Wizards (Harry Potter), International Fanworks Day 2021, Masturbation, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Oral Sex, Post-War, Public Blow Jobs, Public Masturbation, Public Nudity, Rare Pairings, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:34:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jayiin/pseuds/jayiin
Summary: Ten years after Voldemort's defeat, ICW Auror Harry Potter is a reluctant guest at a Ministry celebration and gets cornered by Witch Weekly reporter Romilda Vane, who takes the opportunity to thank him for his sacrifice and celebrate victor over Voldemort in a much more intimate fashion - if he's willing to accept her offer of just one moment for himself.
Relationships: Hannah Abbott/Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter/Romilda Vane, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	Just One Moment

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a thought experiment and morphed into a smutty one shot. Then it grew character and even hinted at a plot. There may be a sequel (or two?) down the road. It was supposed to be posted on International Fanworks Day 2021 as my first posted fic in over a decade, but Snowpocalypse 2021 down here in Texas delayed it. 
> 
> But here it is anyway. My first published fic in over a decade.
> 
> Cover Image by: HelloLeahJoy

## Just One Moment

### COPYRIGHT DISCLAIMER

> _I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to Harry Potter. Those rights are held, exclusively, by JK Rowling, and any other entities, corporations, subsidiaries, or groups not named here possessing legal rights to the aforementioned books and/or trademark._
> 
> _The following is a work of fan fiction. This is written strictly for personal entertainment purposes, and no profit will be earned. No copyright infringement is intended. In the event of copyright infringement, rights to the following work of fan fiction are hereby ceded to JK Rowling and associated holdings with interests in Harry Potter._
> 
> _The images used to create the cover image are owned by whichever organizations, entities, corporations, subsidiaries, or individuals with rights to them and are used here as images searched under Creative Commons License. No profit is being made, and neither myself nor the artist (HelloLeahJoy) claim ownership of these images._

~*~

### May 2, 2008 - British Ministry of Magic Grand Ballroom

Harry Potter hated parties. Especially official parties.

It wasn’t intense dislike, distaste, or even disdain. It was genuine hatred. Official parties were just self-important people being self-congratulatory to remind everyone how important they were - and Harry usually had better things to be doing.

 _Yet here I am. Wasting an entire night_.

Ten years to the day Voldemort had died, and Harry Potter was back at the Ministry of Magic, in a grand ballroom made of the same polished black stone he hated remembering, surrounded by people he barely remembered. Or didn’t want to remember.

Given how few of the ‘important people’ were willing to meet his eyes, they weren’t exactly pleased to see him, either.

They’d invited him to their anniversary celebration for the same reason he’d actually shown up – there wasn’t any reasonable way to get out of it.

_If I were them, I wouldn't want me here, either._

Not only was he more famous and more popular than most of the politicians, they knew enough to be a little afraid of him. Some of them were probably worried he knew who they were and what they’d been up to.

Most of those were probably smart enough not to confront him. They knew he would take them down and arrest them if they gave him half an excuse, no matter what his bosses might have to say about the ‘optics’ or the politics.

He could get away with it. It was one of the few advantages to being Harry Potter.

He hadn’t faded into obscurity after the defeat of Voldemort, despite his best intentions.

Hermione had told him over and over again it wasn't possible to avoid, not if he kept doing what he was doing. Until he changed his very nature and stopped trying to save the world (sometimes from itself), he wouldn't be able to have a 'normal' life or avoid journalistic scrutiny.

She'd also told him that he and the press were part of a self-fulfilling cycle: journalists paid attention to what he had done, and thus found out what he was doing. Once everyone knew what he was doing, he got more opportunity to do it. Sometimes, just because the press set him up for the bad guys: any dark wizard who could take him down would be assured a place in history and would have earned the fear and awe of the general public.

Thus, Harry was still constantly in the press for heroic deeds, dramatic duels, epic battles, and dark lords foiled.

Except now, it wasn't just the British press. It was press all over the world. It was his own fault, because he'd done exactly what everyone expected of him: he'd become an Auror.

Just not for the British Ministry of Magic. He worked for the International Confederation of Wizards.

For eight years, he had built his career and reputation on being the bane of dark wizards – especially those who assumed the mantle of 'dark lord' or tried to follow in the footsteps of Voldemort or Grindelwald.

And for finding, arresting, and quite publicly ruining corrupt politicians all over the world. Exposing dirty politicians wasn't part of his job, but it was as close as he got to a hobby. His bosses often said it was his personal 'passion project,' but they loved the good press it brought the ICW, so they encouraged him.

Despite his success, his career wasn't always as lauded in Britain. Some of the politicians and former classmates looked at him like he’d betrayed them all. The Boy Who Lived not working for the British Ministry was a scandal.

His unwillingness to work for the Ministry that branded him as a lunatic rabble rouser desperate for attention offended them. His belief that everyone in the world should be equally protected from the dark arts offended them.

So he'd made sure to wear his dress uniform to the party, because he was sure that would offend them, too. It wasn't even proper robes.

Stiff, high necked black tunic. Heavy black trousers and calf-high dragonhide boots. Gold piping on the pants and gold braid on the sleeves were his only decorations.

Compared to almost everyone else there, he was starkly unadorned. ICW Aurors didn’t wear medals or service ribbons. They didn’t need to. There were so few of them that anyone who was anyone knew who they were and what they did.

His dress uniform cloak was both traditional and rather fancy: black and gold, bearing the symbol of the Confederation and his badge of office, but it was hung in the coat room.

He nodded to Ron and Hermione, who were schmoozing with the Ministry’s finest bootlickers, all of them wanting to impress Hermione Weasley. Ron stood proudly next to his wife, but kept tugging at the collar of his dress robes.

They waved back enthusiastically. They, at least, were proud of him. They were still his best friends, and their kids called him 'Uncle Harry.'

He’d seen Neville and Hannah earlier, stumbling around the dance floor, lost in each other. He was happy for his friend - Neville had both love and success. Hogwarts’ Professor of Herbology marrying the new owner of the Three Broomsticks had gotten a front-page story. And Neville was rightfully being honored at the party right along with him, Ron, and Hermione.

He’d seen Ginny, too, but she still wasn’t speaking to him. Ten years later, and she still hadn’t forgiven him for leaving her behind. He’d wanted to explain as soon as Voldemort had died, but she had never let him.

_I was right to leave her behind. I was right to make Remus stay behind. I was right about most of it. Not that anyone wants to admit it._

Nowadays, she would give interviews about the noble sacrifices they had both made. About how they'd had different paths, different tasks, and how both had been necessary to win the war.

How it had driven them apart and kept them apart.

She believed every word of it. She might even know he’d been right – that too many people would have made their task impossible. But she was still mad.

Hermione told him it was the price of his 'saving people thing.'

_Why should I try to talk to her again? I can get yelled at by people mad at me for much more recent mistakes._

At least ten years was long enough he wasn’t still pining after a girl he’d kissed as a teenager. He'd certainly done enough pining for a year or two after the war. He'd thought Ginny was quite possibly the only woman for him.

Given the catastrophic state of his love life since, he wasn't sure he'd been wrong.

At least I've stopped staring at her every time we're in the same room.

Harry stood in the back of the room, listened to the speeches, and raised his glass just enough for the toasts. Politicians talked about how 'blessedly short' the second war had been. How amazing the people of wizarding Britain had been. How bravely so many had fought. How awful it was so many had died.

It was harder to listen to ten years later than it had been right after.

He still got angry listening to the lies. Lies about how amazing the Ministry was. What heroes the 'dedicated public servants' had been.

Lies it would do no good to set straight. He'd tried and failed. Hermione had tried and failed.

Hermione kept telling him to wait. That one day, someone would tell the real story. Then they could say all the things that really needed to be said.

Harry Potter may have learned how to wait, but he wasn't nearly as good at participating in the Ministry-approved farce.

There was a break after the speeches. Ostensibly, it was so everyone could eat dinner. The wizarding word had recently decided that buffets were the latest fad, and the Ministry elves (now properly paid, courtesy of Hermione), had prepared an amazing array of proper British cuisine.

The buffet tables, food, and tables for everyone to sit around appeared in showers of glittery light as polite applause followed the last speaker from the podium.

He wasn't in the mood to appreciate any of it, but he was sure Ron would eat his share.

Really, the break was a nice, long pause for everyone to congratulate the speakers before the awards ceremony.

Harry certainly had noticed the politicians and 'notable citizens' glancing over, waiting for him to go and shake their hands. Reporters and photographers waiting close enough they wouldn't miss any shots of Harry Potter interacting with the top tiers of society and government.

He was about to be the hero of the hour, again.

He was supposed to get an award and give a speech the politicians were surely dreading; none of them knew what he was going to say. He might call them out for how they’d treated him during the war he’d spent his adolescence fighting. Or the lies they’d told about the war – and him – since.

He just couldn't stay in the room any longer. He set down his glass of weak champagne and walked out.

He didn't want yet another medal or award from people who wanted to rewrite history. He certainly didn’t want to give a speech endorsing their version of events.

The 'true' story of the war had already been told by Rita Skeeter and her ilk, memorialized in fiction and nonfiction so many times that he sometimes wondered if he remembered anything correctly.

Then he would go to bed and dream, and he would be sure he knew exactly what had happened.

He left the low hum of generic conversation behind and breathed a sigh of relief.

~*~

He hated the Ministry building. Not just because Sirius had died there, or because of what the Ministry had done to him.

It felt oppressive - everything was glossy black and foreboding. It was supposed to be elegant. To demonstrate wealth and power and prestige, to hearken back to the days of Rome and Londinium.

_This place is just depressing. Why do I keep agreeing to these things again?_

A lot like the party he was quietly escaping.

He really didn't want any more awards. Or any more names. Or any more praise.

Most of the time, he didn't know what he wanted, other than his next assignment or his next meal. He had vague ambitions of maybe, someday, when his fame had faded, teaching at Hogwarts or training Aurors.

It was the closest he'd ever come to a retirement plan. Or any kind of plan beyond his next case.

He knew keeping himself so busy was probably unhealthy and would catch up with him eventually. But he liked staying on the move. He liked knowing what he did kept the next Voldemort or the next Fudge from hurting people.

It was a purpose, and that was better than the alternatives.

He still sometimes wondered what his life could have been like if he had been able to set down roots and settle somewhere.

He'd just never needed to. Not really. So he'd never made the opportunity, even though he knew he could.

He owned Grimmauld Place and stayed there sometimes. But he was never that long between assignments. There were too many dark wizards and corrupt politicians.

Most of his food and clothing were taken care of by the Confederation and his salary just got dumped into his vault, adding to the gold he already had.

More than he could reasonably spend in a lifetime.

His Potter inheritance. His inheritance from Sirius - which had been quite a bit more than 'a reasonable amount of gold.'

Then there'd been the war - the Ministry had paid him quite a bit for dispatching Voldemort. Domestic and international bounties on not only Voldemort, but Death Eaters he'd captured and killed from fifth year on.

Never ending 'image rights' payments, every time someone used his name or face to sell something. (He gratefully let Percy Weasley handle that for him for a portion of the proceeds. Percy loved the paperwork and the negotiations and was adept at protecting Harry from having his name or face attached to anything he wouldn't want it to be.)

Even more galleons from selling off Black family heirlooms and jewelry he didn't want, books he would never need (and Hermione didn't want), and all manner of fripperies he'd had no interest in.

There was still a lot more in that old house. Stuff he could sell. Or donate. One day, he'd find the motivation to finish going through it, if only because there were things that needed to be destroyed, un-cursed, or that he might actually want. Most of his off-duty wizarding clothes were from those old closets. Which had, according to the press, given him a surprisingly popular ‘vintage’ look.

He'd just not wanted to spend money on fancy clothes he didn't like. Or want. Before the ICW had offered him a job, he hadn't known where his next galleon was going to come from, so he'd tried to be prudent with his money.

Now, he had a 'look.'

His superiors had strongly indicated they wanted him to use that look – somehow. He hadn't bothered arguing. Why would he? Everyone had an idea of who and what he was supposed to be, and there really wasn't any use fighting it anymore.

It's why he was at the Ministry. There wasn't any use arguing when so many people had told him to come. He'd tried to explain that he hadn't wanted to be there. He'd tried to explain why he hadn't wanted to be there.

But everyone had just kept telling him how important it was for him be there. To get an award he didn't know how to care about.

The Ministry even wrote his superiors, who had agreed he should go and get the award and make a speech. One of the interns had written it for him. Harry supposed it was pretty good, because everyone who'd read it or heard him practice it seemed quite excited about it.

It mostly talked about things he'd lived through, things he'd endured, as if they had been great adventures. As if he had been a great hero.

As if his death, however brief, had meant far, far more than he thought it had.

As if everyone else's deaths, that they didn't get to come back from, meant far, far less than he knew they did.

He felt the weight of his pipe and tobacco tucked into his belt pouch. He couldn't pinpoint when he'd picked up the habit, but he had. Hermione routinely fussed at him about it, but he hadn't really tried to break it.

Somehow, he'd managed to keep it out of the press, despite not trying to hide it.

He wasn't sure if it had been in the Amazon jungle, with the old Goblin and his team of curse breakers as they hunted down the dark wizard who'd used ancient magic to raise an army of dead warriors to conquer the world.

Or was it when he'd gone down to Louisiana in the States? The old swamp wizards and their hand carved pipes and home smoked tobacco - spicy and harsh on the throat.

It could have also been in the bitter cold between Russia and ancient Mongolia. Smoking stale tobacco to stay warm around faltering fires that not even magic could keep lit against the bitter cold.

It didn't matter. He just knew he could use a smoke right then - half a bowl or so, and maybe he'd find his vaunted Gryffindor courage and be able to go back in there and accept his award and make his speech before he went home to an empty, dark house that - despite his best efforts - still smelled like decay.

Ron and Hermione weren't going to invite him over. They would want to get home to their kids. They'd talk about him coming for dinner sometime, but he knew none of them would find a time, not for a few months, anyway. The holidays, for sure. He'd never missed a Christmas with them, not since their oldest had been born.

(It had occurred to him to ask to stay a night or three with them, but he didn't want to impose.)

He could have stayed at the Burrow, but Ginny lived there between Quidditch seasons, and that was the kind of awkward he tried to avoid.

Staying at the Leaky Cauldron was just a good way to get all of the attention he didn't want.

_I need to get a flat somewhere muggle. Somewhere crowded. Busy. Where no one will pay attention to a damn thing I do._

It was a good idea. He had it almost every time he was back in Britain. He might even eventually do it.

He would just have to go to Gringotts to get muggle money and get the ICW to make sure all his muggle paperwork was up to date.

It was on his list.

He'd started the list just after the war, in a little pocket notebook he'd picked up somewhere. It was an antique notebook, the pages yellowed with age but the brown leather cover was still in good condition. The tarnished brass pen had come with it. He was inordinately fond of the little set.

Once she'd seen him using it, Hermione had applied a few judicious charms to it. The notebook and pen were now quite durable, and both were seemingly endless. Hermione had warned him there was a theoretical limit for pages and ink, but so far, he wasn't anywhere close.

One of the lists in his notebook was all the lies told about him and the war. He wanted to make sure, when the chance to set the record straight finally came around, he didn't miss anything.

The speeches he'd just heard had added a few more he needed to write down. If he couldn't convince himself to go back to the ceremony, he'd go find some place to have a cup of tea and a pipe while he wrote those notes down.

But he knew he really needed to go back for the ceremony. He hadn't promised, but he had shown up, which was tacit agreement to play along with at least part of the anniversary celebration.

_I should never have given in. I should not have come here tonight._

He had no idea what else he would have done with himself, though. Ten years to the day after Voldemort had died still meant something to him. He just wasn't sure what yet.

_I won't find out here, that's for sure._

It was too bad the Ministry was underground. He would have loved to find a courtyard or an outdoors bench where he could smoke and collect himself before facing the Ministry and the press again.

He heard the whisper of footsteps ahead of him.

Harry slowed his pace and peered through the shadows. He wanted to see who was in that hallway with him before they saw him.

He hadn't expected to see a woman wandering in seemingly aimless fashion. He'd expected to see a House Elf, or some minor clerk staying late.

She was barefoot, silver strappy heels dangling from her fingers. She was obviously dressed for the party - her daring, shimmery gray dress sparkled in the dim light. Her back was bare so far down Harry was surprised he didn't see the top of her rather spectacular ass. Slits in her dress teased glimpses of her slender legs. Her dark wavy hair was in a complicated 'up do' (a phrase Harry only understood because a woman he'd met on a mission had spent several hours of a stake explaining the vagaries of women's fashion. Occasionally, he remembered snippets of it.)

She swayed down the wide hall, but didn’t appear drunk. She looked – bored. She stared up at the ceiling as she wandered.

The 'clutch' in her hand matched her dress, and her dangling earrings glittered in the torchlight. Matching wide bracelets clung tightly to her narrow wrists. She wore delicate chain anklets, and she had thin chains woven through her hair with some kind gemstone - Harry had never developed the knack of knowing which stone was which.

(He was later told they were opals.)

He slowed, searching for somewhere to hide.

_A corridor. An office. A broom storage closet. Anything._

The last thing he wanted was to be seen or recognized.

They both took a few more steps – him as silent as he could while she seemed distractedly oblivious, before an intersection magically appeared, with short corridors to either side of them.

The Ministry of Magic was a magical place, and sometimes, extremely convenient nooks and crannies could appear when they were needed. (Sometimes, even entire wings of offices.) The grand ballroom was deep underground, just a level below the courtrooms and was only accessible when someone needed to go there or had an invitation. (Or a press pass. Sometimes.)

Otherwise, it was on a forgotten floor, packed tight with storage space, offices for aides, minor flunkies and functionaries, and Wizengamot support staff. The offices were just stored there – the doors were usually more conveniently located. But some of the offices had doors in the grand, gloomy hallway Harry had tried to hide in.

Harry swiftly ducked into one of the corridors, but their sudden appearance had drawn her attention.

She stopped walking, slowly turned, and met his eyes.

She smirked.

_Well. Fuck._

Harry was pleased with himself. He didn't immediately sigh heavily or apparate away. (Both were fairly normal responses to running into people he didn't know when he was alone at an official function, even beautiful women. There were complications Harry didn't need, and fawning fangirls were high on that list.)

Her features were classically Mediterranean, with high cheekbones and dimples around her mouth. Her dark eyes were bright with amusement and triumph.

He felt like he should recognize her, but he also knew there were a lot of people he should recognize - and didn't.

"Almost fast enough, Harry Potter."

Her voice was low and soft, pitched so he would hear. He heard her walking towards him, but the little hallway he'd found was a dead end.

It was more of an alcove, with three doors to what he assumed were offices, with a pair of benches facing each other.

He sighed and sat down on one of the benches. Like everything else, it was black marble, but it was at least padded and not too short to be uncomfortable.

He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. Maybe he'd just smoke right here in the middle of the Ministry. The scandal might be worth it.

_Hermione will just yell at me. Again._

She sauntered in and sat down on the bench across from him.

The hallway was narrow, and the two of them were a lot closer than he was comfortable with.

"As one of your devoted and loving fans, I should be quite upset to find you hiding from your own awards ceremony. As a dedicated reporter, I should be quite thrilled to catch you alone, all vulnerable to a journalistic ambush. It's really hard to decide what to feel, being in the presence of the Chosen One."

Harry leaned forward and opened his eyes.

He had to admit, she was pretty - for a reporter. Olive skinned, lithe, and her shimmering gray dress was open in a wide V down past her navel, her modesty barely protected by a clingy drape of material, managing to hide nothing but conceal everything.

(Harry did notice her dress was thin enough that it was obvious it was colder to her than it felt to him.)

The only gold she wore was in the dangling necklace hanging around her neck - gold and silver strands of thin chain wrapped around each other, ending in a teardrop jewel (another opal, he would be told) dangling down her chest, drawing attention to the inner curves of her breasts.

On a muggle, her dress would have been more than reasonably risqué. On a witch, it was absolutely scandalous - a muggle dress brazenly displaying quite a bit of bare skin, without so much as a nod to wizarding fashion or modesty.

"You should decide before I find a way to get away. I'm know for daring escapes, after all. You should also know I'm a terrible interview, and have no idea what to say to fans, devoted or otherwise."

She grinned, her sculpted features lighting up in genuine amusement. "Oh, how well I know. You are the bane of reporters and the lament of fans. Especially us fangirls, who so want your undivided attention. But lucky me! I have you here, all to myself. Finally."

Harry almost laughed. "Finally?"

"Yes, Harry. Finally! I've been trying to get you alone since my fourth year. Your sixth year. The term started just weeks after I discovered just what my clitoris was for, and I really wanted you to find out what it was for, too."

Harry's eyes widened. He wasn't unused to women being somewhat forward with him, but she was a new kind of direct. He even almost enjoyed it; there was a refreshing level of honesty to her. He felt both intrigued - and, against his own better judgement, aroused.

Not that he'd let her see that. He was almost positive encouraging her would be a bad idea. (Almost. He was very tempted to encourage her, because he was almost having fun.)

_I'm starting to think I should definitely recognize her._

But he didn't. He hated to admit it, but he hadn't paid nearly as much attention to his Hogwarts classmates as he should have.

"Too much?" She sighed and leaned back. She stretched out a leg, her dress falling away from it, and poked his shin with her toes. "Yep. There's the face. 'Too much' is pretty much the story of my life. But I really hope your eyes didn't get that wide because you don't know what to do with a woman's clit."

Harry sniffed dismissively. "Would it matter if I didn't? I'm Harry Potter. Apparently, some of you can orgasm just by thinking about me hard enough."

_And 'too much' might just be the best description for my life I've heard in a while._

He had no idea why he said that. He was usually a lot better at filtering his thoughts around strangers. And reporters. Especially around strange reporters.

She shook her head.

"Ooh. Poor boy. Trust me, when we orgasm from thinking about you, thinking is not all we are doing, and we are most definitely using our clits for their intended purpose. Nice evasion and turnaround, though."

She shook her head, wagging her finger at him. "Trying to make me feel all awkward about my rather improper comments while not answering my question."

She sat up again, her bare foot sliding across the floor as she stretched out her leg again, baring it all the way to the curve of her hip as she pressed the balls of her toes to the edge of his bench. "Tales of the great and mighty Harry Potter's infamous inability to talk to reporters said nothing about being good at wordplay. Or was that flirting? I can't tell."

Harry shrugged, doing his very best to ignore the slender, shapely leg almost pressing against him. "I'm very good at not answering questions, but I wouldn't know how to flirt if someone wrote a guide."

She heaved a great sigh, and ran her foot down his leg, before drawing it back to herself. He wasn't sure if she'd done it on purpose or if it were an accident. Either way, he'd most definitely noticed it.

"I _have_ written a guide to flirting! It sold pretty well, considering I wrote it third year, and I didn't know what I was talking about. But for a knut a piece, I got a fair few of the girls in my year and the year below to invest in my strategies."

"Ever thought about updating it for the modern witch and wizard?"

She waved off his suggestion. "Oh, absolutely not. I can't flirt - or do anything, really -properly to save my life, and I rather enjoy my scandalous ways. I wouldn't want to share my secret knowledge with anyone. How else would I manage to write about so many scandals and tell so many true tales of misbehavior, bad ideas, and illicit sex?"

Harry titled his head and huffed disdainfully. "So you write for _Witch Weekly_."

She shrugged. "Well, yeah. Where else is a girl who is 'too much' and loves to write going to work in this dreary little magical kingdom? I thought about trying to be our generation's Rita Skeeter, but then I realized that despite my best efforts to lose them in a youthful flurry of debauchery, I still had enough ethics and Gryffindor bravery left in me that I couldn't lie about everything and everyone, much less flounce about being proud of it. Instead, I tell the truth, even when it's boring."

Harry genuinely smiled. "Good. There should be a few honest reporters out there. But why is an honest reporter writing for a gossip rag?"

She put her hand to her forehead and fell back dramatically. "Oh, how you wound me so! Accusing me of writing gossip after I so eloquently explained my unfortunate case of morality!"

Harry noted her falling backwards meant running her bare foot up his leg, and he was now positive it wasn't an accident.

As she arched her back, he had a wonderful view of the curves of her breasts pushing against the dress that kept threatening to slip away and show him everything he didn't want to admit he very much wanted to see.

And feel. What her skin would feel like against his fingertips?

He did his best not to stare. Or get caught staring.

He just barely kept himself from shaking his head to clear it; he didn't want to let her know her little show was getting to him.

 _Never give in to reporters._ It was a cardinal rule - give in even a little and they would exploit it, and him, in ways he could never predict.

_No matter how much fun it might seem._

"And here I thought reporters didn't notice the sting of anything we public figures have to say about them." Harry wasn't sure what he was doing, but his hand rested on her bare ankle for a brief second before she slowly. deliberately drew her leg back, letting his fingertips slide over her skin.

She was a lot more fun to talk to than anyone else he'd talked to in – well, awhile.

Her other foot was tucked under her, causing her dress to fall in a very suggestive way - hinting that if he were to peer exactly right, he would see what was under the dress. Something he wasn't about to do, despite what might have been an obvious invitation to do so.

 _The last thing I need is a_ Witch Weekly _article about me looking up a reporter’s skirts._

He also couldn't help but wonder if her dress were magic. It clung tightly to her skin without a single line or blemish, but slid along her like it was lightly draped over her - making the possible invitation to look even more tantalizing, hinting at an even naughtier secret than he thought she was offering.

_Maybe Seamus was right…women have a magic all their own men will never make sense of?_

His former dormmate had muttered that to Dean the morning after the Triwizard Yule Ball - Harry hadn't understood at the time, but as he'd gotten older, it made more sense. (In his own defense, he'd been distracted fourth year by trying not to die. Teenage hormones were no match for survival instincts.)

"Oh, but you're Harry Potter! Absolutely everything you say and do is fraught with meaning and importance! Why, you once came out of a shop in Diagon Alley wearing a fedora, and suddenly, fedoras were the most important thing in fashion." She looked a little disgruntled. "They still are."

Harry shrugged. "I still have that hat? It was in a closet at Grimmauld Place, and I wanted to keep the rain off my head. I saw the hat. I grabbed the hat. It didn’t fit, so I took it to Madame Malkin to resize it. Imagine my frustration when Hermione told me I'd started a fashion trend. I almost stopped wearing it, but I still want to keep my head dry."

_Buying a new hat wouldn't fix anything, anyway. The new hat would start a new trend._

She extended her foot again, pressing her manicured toes to the front of his knee. Unsurprisingly, her nail polish matched the shimmery dark gray of her dress.

He had to admire her attention to detail.

"And they still are! Because you wore one eight years ago! Fraught with meaning, see? So, sting my poor heart you did, Harry Potter. A lion of Gryffindor I may be, but your wit is as sharp as any raven."

Harry, to his surprise, found himself chuckling, "Gryffindor, huh? Well, then, I certainly would expect you to defend your publication, now wouldn't I?"

_Okay. It's official. I really should know who she is._

He really didn't notice when it happened, but noticed his hand was resting on her toes. He left it there for a second, surprised at how much he enjoyed the brief physical contact, but drew it away, sliding his fingers over her the warm skin of her foot.

He swore he saw her shiver.

He knew he saw her pause.

"Defend the honor of my publication? Would you believe me if I did, Harry Potter? Would you believe there was value in _Witch Weekly_ , if I were to extol its many virtues to you?"

Harry kept smiling. "Well, I might not believe _Witch Weekly_ has honor to defend, but you did say you were an honest woman and a Gryffindor, so I would certainly give your defense more attention and credence than I normally would."

_And keep you talking to me._

She smiled and her eyes twinkled. She wiggled her toes against his knee and shifted slightly, letting her dress fall away from her extended leg, leaving it bare all way up to her waist, but Harry kept his eyes on her, despite what seemed an obvious open invitation to peek under her dress.

"Oh, Harry Potter. You misunderstand me! I said I was an honest journalist, not an honest woman. As a woman, I am quite perfidious. Cunning, canny, and even conniving. Quite proud of it really, because I usually get what I want, and everyone is usually happy about it, because I'm just. That. Good."

With the last three words, she unfolded her other leg, letting it swing in front of the bench.

"I don't write gossip, Harry. I write about those most important of things." Her voice stopped being quite so playful, but the flirtatious edge was still there. "I write about people. I write about relationships. People are everything - without them, we have no news. We have no stories. No relationships. Without relationships, we are all alone. No friends to fill a cold night with laughter. No lovers to warm a cold bed or comfort an aching heart. No bare skin on bare skin, or delicate little gasps, or shared joys and shared pleasures."

She curled her toes against his leg. "People want to know about people. They want to know that everyone thinks and feels like they do. We don't, of course - but we all share the desire to not be alone. To find love, in whatever form we want it. To enjoy friends. To have experiences we remember and talk about and cherish. To build lives we are proud of, accomplish things we dream of."

Her foot skimmed up and down his calf.

"People want to belong, all the while expressing their best, most authentic selves - which is where fashion comes in. Scandals are fun, because they shake us up - the right kind of scandals. A daring dress," she plucked at the fabric barely covering her breasts.

"Lovers caught doing deliciously naughty things in the wrong place. A girl swimming without her top, or a famous boy dared to race down a Quidditch pitch in his birthday suit."

Harry couldn’t help but laugh. "Oliver is _still_ very proud of that story - and those pictures."

"Oh, he most certainly was. His boyfriend was less amused, but what can you do? Oliver has a lot to be proud of, and he's a great English Keeper on top of it. But I don't embarrass people, Harry. I don't tell the tales that shame or blame. I don't mock poor fashion or scold the daring. I celebrate love. I write about triumphs, and I laugh with people like Oliver Wood. I laud beautiful clothes, and I congratulate the daring for sharing part of themselves with us. I celebrate people and what they do. I remember what they wrote about you. The lies. The slander. And I decided I would be the writer who tells stories to make people feel better about being people."

Her foot slid up and down the inside of his calf. "It's why I'm not in the ballroom. There are no celebrations in there - or there shouldn't be. There is mourning and there are lies and there are bad memories being touted as great moments in history. It's why you're not in there, either. You lived what they want to celebrate, and you agree with me - they are celebrating the wrong things."

"They are." Harry's hand was on her foot again, but he wasn't smiling anymore.

"But you, Harry. You." She stared steadily at him. "You haven't ever celebrated, have you? You haven't ever celebrated being alive when you should be dead. You haven't ever celebrated Voldemort being dead, his Death Eaters being broken. You haven't celebrated at all. You have just - kept fighting."

She brushed an errant lock of hair over her shoulder. The motion moved her dress again, revealing even more of her breasts to him.

His pants were starting to feel too tight, and it was getting harder and harder not to stare.

_Just what are you playing at, exactly? What do you get out of this?_

It felt like a lot more than just a ploy to flirt him into giving her a scandalous story. It felt more - personal.

Intimate.

And he liked it more than he thought he should.

She extended her other foot, dragging her toes along his inner thigh - very slowly. "You haven't even let any of us devoted fan girls thank you for being willing to die for us." Her bare foot brushed gently against his groin, her toes grazing his cock - which started to get hard.

He was vaguely aware of the time. That he probably needed to stop whatever was happening and go back for the awards ceremony. He just really didn’t want to.

_It'd be a shame to miss the ceremony. A real shame._

"Did you ever think, Harry Potter, that us saying…thank you…might not be about you? Very selfish of you." The arch of her foot caressed his cock. He couldn’t help but feel she was very practiced at that. But what did he know? No woman had ever done that to him.

"That us…thanking…you might be an important moment for us? An important celebration of still being alive, still being free? Of celebrating the person who paid for it with his life? Alone, in the woods, with no one to watch. No one to cry. No one to care."

Harry's iron self-discipline kept his breathing steady, despite the absolutely amazing sensations her foot was creating.

He'd never been turned on by a foot before. It was a new experience for him - and one he wasn't sure how he felt about.

_Confused arousal is better than remembering that day._

"But….we care, Harry." She slid her foot back down. “We cried.” He saw her reach up behind her, and her hair fell free in long black tresses, down to pool at her sides on the bench. She shifted her other foot, sliding it along the inside of his other thigh, and back down his leg.

Her voice went to a bare whisper. "I care, Harry."

The foot pressed against him trailed back along his inner thigh, and down his other leg. She leaned forward, and her dress slipped giving him a tantalizing glimpse of her nipples - and a glint of gold?

She leaned forward, resting her palms on his knees. Her voice broke, quietly. Softly. "I cried."

She was even closer, close enough that he would barely have to move to kiss her, and he wanted to - but he got the distinct impression she wanted him to wait.

To let her speak. She wanted him to _hear_ her.

"You died. We all felt hope die. You died, and you were in Hagrid's arms. You died, and Voldemort stood before us. You died, and we weren't Gryffindor anymore. Or Ravenclaw. Or Hufflepuff. Or Slytherin. We weren't children anymore. We were just people, waiting for death or worse under the gaze of evil."

Her dark, beautiful eyes were wet with tears.

"And then you weren't dead. Then you stood back up. Wand in hand. You fought him - again. In front of us. We fought, too. I fought. Not all of us walked away…but most of us did. More of us did, than would have, if you hadn't stood back up."

"We are alive, because of you." She leaned in and she kissed him slowly, gently, thoroughly. "I am alive, because of you."

Her hands lifted up, behind her head and she was straddling him.

His arms instinctively went around her waist, his hands trailing across the cool fabric of her dress, along the curve of her hips, until he felt the warmth of her bare back under his hands and he felt the throbbing pressure in his cock.

It had been a long time since he’d felt a woman this close against him.

Her cheek, wet with tears, was pressed against his. Her breath tickled his ear as she whispered to him.

"I am alive, because you died."

She kissed him again, her hands on either side of his face.

"You deserve gratitude, Harry Potter. You deserve so much more than any of us could ever give you, but so many of us - like me - know there is one thing we can give you."

"And what is that?" His voice was a hoarse, raspy whisper.

She smiled widely, her eyes bright with hope. She slid off his lap, standing over him. "One moment. I can give you just one moment in time. One moment in your life - that is all about you." Her hips swayed, and her hands were back behind her neck.

This time, when her hands came back around, the top of her dress fell free, revealing her breasts and the gold rings through her nipples.

_I guess the dress was hiding something after all?_

"Just one moment, Harry Potter. About you. For you. Celebrating you. Thanking you. Just one moment to feel good. To feel wanted."

Her hips swayed again, and her dress pooled around her feet, finally revealing she hadn't worn anything under it.

Harry felt his mouth go dry and he swallowed hard, trying to get his tongue to unstick from the roof of his mouth.

Her legs were slender and smooth, toned and sculpted. Another delicate gold chain circled her waist, falling over her hip bones; it ran through the tiny gold ring piercing her navel.

His palms felt hot; he wanted to reach out and caress her hips, a feel his hands on her ass - to trace his fingertips up her stomach to the undersides of her breasts.

To feel what her nipple rings felt like; what she sounded like when he tugged at them.

But something in her eyes kept him frozen in place - a desperate, silent, plea that he wait for her. To let her set the pace, to let her do whatever it was she wanted to do.

His eyes couldn't stay in one place; he knew this moment might never come again, and it was as if he were trying to memorize her.

So that next time, he would recognize her. So when the moment was over, he wouldn't forget.

She was shaved bare, and like her nipples and navel. her clitoris were pierced. A gold chain dangled from her clitoral piercing, ending in another opal.

She stood unashamedly nude, her eyes half-lidded. She licked her lips as her hands came back up.

  
She ran her hands over her breasts, tweaking her nipples, and down her flat stomach, down to her mound, where her fingers curled around her cunt, sliding between her lips. She gasped, and her fingers slid in while the other hand tugged on the chain.

"I told you I knew exactly what to do with my clitoris. And I know from the gossip people love to tell me that you know what to do with one, too."

Her voice was breathy, heavy with arousal.

She slid her fingers out of herself and leaned over him, sliding them into his open mouth.

"Just one moment, Harry. For you. From me. One moment of connection to someone else. Connection both of us want."

His tongue swirled around her fingers, tasting her. His legs spread apart on their own and he felt his cock pressing against his trousers, the fabric rough and uncomfortable.

"Do you taste that, Harry? How much I want to give you this moment? Just one moment where you get to be the hero and get a hero's thanks. Just one moment where you get to feel good. Feel – appreciated."

He didn't know how, but her wand was in her hand. She leaned down and kissed him again, gliding her tongue across his lips and then into his mouth. Her kiss was more forceful, deeper, as if to prove her sincerity. Prove how much she wanted to give him his moment.

When she pulled away, Harry felt cooler air across his torso, suddenly aware she had unfastened his tunic, leaving his chest bare.

Her hands rested on his bare chest, and she leaned over him, her mouth hovering over his nipple. Her tongue flicked out over it and he heard himself gasp, almost groan. She leaned over to the other and flicked it with her tongue.

"Just one moment between two people. One moment about you. About me giving you the gratitude you deserve, because I want to. No article. No whispered giggles to other girls. A moment just between you and me."

Her hands and mouth worked their way down his chest, until they found his belt. She looked up at him with wide, dark eyes hungry for permission. Validation?

He wanted so very much to say yes. To ask her to give him the moment she said she wanted to give him. To let her do whatever it was she wanted to do.

But - even if this wasn't about a story or a reporter getting secrets from him, could he give in to someone who wanted him just because he was Harry Potter?

"I won't lie." Harry ran his fingers through her hair. "I want to say yes. But how would that be right?"

She smiled as she unfastened his belt and his pants. "It is very right, Harry Potter. Because you didn’t ask for it. Because I want to give it to you. Because I am offering it to you. Because I have fantasized about giving you this moment long before you returned to life. Because you deserve to be thanked, and so few people have…thanked you…in any meaningful way in a very long time. I know. Because people tell me things."

Harry sucked in a deep breath. "It has been a while."

Her smiled widened. "Good. You'll appreciate it all the more, even if I know I'll ruin you for any other woman."

"Oh, you will, will you?" He shifted as she pulled his pants down, freeing his cock. Cold air hit hot skin and he gasped.

"Yes, Harry Potter. I will. I know a lot of things about myself. I am 'too much' for most people. They never stick around, because they can't handle me being too much, and that makes me sad a lot more often than I admit to anyone."

He felt her warm breath against his cock as her head moved up and down, her lips almost touching him. Her nails grazed up and down his shaft, teasing and playing and feeling - her fingers curled around him, as if testing the feel and shape of him.

_Why am I not stopping this?_

"I am a good writer, and what I write is important and powerful, and I will keep telling important, powerful stories celebrating people and what they do. Because someone needs to write that sort of thing, and I am the absolute best at it."

Her tongue reached out, licking the base of his cock and trailing up to just under the head, leaving a wet, warm trail on the sensitive skin, his nerves alive and awake more than they had been in years.

He couldn't help it. He sucked in air, a quiet groan slipping out as he exhaled.

"And I am, quite proudly - as my naughty American friends tell me - a horny little slut who loves to fuck, lick pussy, and suck cock." Her tongue trailed down his cock again, and slid down further, cupping and caressing his balls. And then back up again. "I am very, very good at all three. I have practiced for this moment for years, Harry Potter. I have been waiting to suck your cock for even longer."

Her last sentence sent a rush of adrenaline through him, and he realized he had already given in.

_I don't think I was ever really going to say no._

He let out a long breath, completely and totally unsure of what to say, of what happened next. He'd never done - anything - like this. With anyone, not without a lot of awkwardness and a relationship first.

Her hand came up and tugged on his balls, one finger extending to a spot just behind them, pressing in and rolling slightly. He felt a shock of pleasure, and leaned back with a groan, his hips instinctively thrusting forward.

"I love to make people feel good. I’m good at making people feel good."

She kissed her way down his cock, each brush of her lips leaving a faint smear of lipstick. Each kiss came with the lightest touch from the tip of her tongue.

"I love to make people feel good about themselves."

Her tongue ran all the way up his cock, up to the head. He saw her hand dip down between her legs and he heard her gasp; heard her wetness as her fingers slid back into herself.

"I love to use my mouth. To talk. To tease."

The hand between her legs jerked as she thrust in and out of herself, fucking her cunt as she teased his cock.

"It turns me on to use my tongue, Harry Potter. To have my mouth on someone else. To feel them in that most intimate way."

Her tongue slid around the head of his cock, leaving a wet, hot trail behind.

"A writer's tongue is just another pen, Harry Potter."

Her breath whispered over his cock, brushing away the wetness and leaving a tingling, pulsing pleasure.

"I use it in all manner of ways. To entice others to share their stories. To shape words. To tease. To kiss. To taste."

Her mouth closed over him, and for a long moment, all he felt was the wet heat of her mouth around him, the way her tongue slid down his shaft, rubbing against his head and glans, tortuously slow.

He groaned softly.

She pulled her head back up at the same agonizingly deliberate pace. Her tongue cupped his cock, arching and rolling against him - he had to fight the urge to moan, to squirm - to push his cock back into her mouth and force her to keep it there.

"I have used my tongue to make people cry. To make them laugh. To make them moan. Even scream. I have put my tongue on nipples. Cunts. Cocks. Even up someone's ass, when they were especially nice to me."

She dipped her head down again, her mouth closing over his balls as her free hand wrapped around the base of his cock - firm, gentle; stroking ever so slowly.

"And you, Harry Potter, have a beautiful cock deserving as much attention as the rest of you does."

Her words were soft, but he felt the vibration of them up and down the length of him as her cheek pressed against his cock.

Her head dipped again.

Her tongue rolled his balls around in her mouth and it was all he could do not to groan loudly - the sound would echo in the black stone hall of the Ministry.

He knew he was missing the ceremony, but he couldn’t make himself care. He hadn't ever really intended to go back, and he was finally admitting it to himself.

People were going to be disappointed in him. Some of them, like Ron and Hermione, he actually cared about. The others, he could live with disappointing.

He'd apologize to Ron and Hermione later.

_Ron will understand, at least._

He felt himself gasping again.

Her tongue extended, the tip against that spot just behind his balls, pressing hard and hot against it before sliding up and down along the ridge of flesh between his testicles and ass.

The sensations made his vision go white for a long heartbeat.

Before he could respond - or think - her mouth was around his cock again, and her hand was back on his balls, her finger tight against that spot as she rolled and tugged his sack.

She was looking up at him, her lips stretched obscenely around his cock. Her other hand was between her legs, slowly and purposefully fucking herself while sucking him.

He felt her inhale around his cock, felt the suction pull her cheeks in; and she started bobbing her head up and down, slowly and with relish. He felt - and saw - saliva coating his cock as she slid it in and out of her mouth. Her fingers played with his testicles, massaging the spot he'd never known was there, and he couldn't keep his breathing controlled anymore.

Her eyes smiled as he gasped.

Each time her head came down, he felt himself slip further and further into her mouth.

She didn't miss a beat; she fingered herself in time with the movement of her head - and he felt the head of his cock pushed into her throat, and that sensation sent bolts of lightning through him.

It was tight and almost burning hot; her throat constricted around him as she gagged slightly, pressing and squeezing as she pushed him further and further into her mouth. Each time she swallowed and choked, he felt sharp jolts of incredible sensation snake through his cock, down to his balls and up his chest.

She hadn't taken her eyes off his.

She was enjoying herself.

She was taking her time. The thought they could be caught in that hallway obviously didn’t concern her; she was stark naked and he might as well have been.

She was on her knees and his cock was in her mouth. Her fingers were in her pussy, making obscene, wet sounds with each thrust of her hand.

Each thrust made her draw in air through her nose and grunt softly, puffing hot air around his cock.

Her enthusiastic blowjob wasn't silent either; the sound of her gulping each time his cock slipped down her throat, the sound of his spit-soaked member being sucked back into her mouth with each bob of her head - sounds which could give them away.

Her chin was slick with saliva, and more dribbled out around his cock.

Then he felt her moan while his cock was deep in her throat, her nose was pressed against his pelvis - Harry was glad he kept himself shaved as she pressed her nose against his skin with each dip of her head.

He felt the tension building and his orgasm rising - and it was all he could do to keep from crying out.

Her moans vibrated against him, growing in intensity as she masturbated, kneeling between his legs.

He sucked in air.

"I'm going to -"

Her head dipped back down, and his cock was back down her throat. She pressed on that spot, tugged at his balls - and he saw her other hand reach down under her and then back -

_Is she putting a finger in her ass?_

As he realized that was exactly what she was doing, he came.

His hands clenched, white-knuckle gripping the edge of the bench; each spasm making his hips thrust, shoving his cock deeper down her throat.

His hands slid into her hair, holding her head in place as shock after shock of pleasure and relief tore through him as she sucked the cum from him.

Gasping, moaning as softly as he could - he felt each swallow as he exploded down the back of her throat, heard each gurgle as he shot cum down her throat.

He hadn't cum that hard - _ever_.

Nor had he ever cum that much. Comments from his few lovers over the years had told him he came more than usual, but this was - far beyond his norm.

  
She didn't stop right away; she kept sucking, kept swallowing until he was empty, until not even a dribble was coming from his cock, and his balls felt deliciously empty; shock of intensity and pleasure rippled out from that place her fingers still pressed against.

He'd never had an orgasm like that.

He could barely whisper as he gently tugged at her head, so sensitive he almost couldn't stand the feel of her mouth and throat around him.

She pulled back, swallowing hard and smacking her lips. "Oooh, Harry. You taste better than most. I can't say I expected that."

Her face was covered in saliva; so were her heaving breasts. One of her hands had come back up to grip him at the base and keep stroking. To his surprise, he was still hard.

Her fingers were still busy behind her.

"I told you Harry, I'm kinda slutty. Proudly slutty. I own who I am and what I want. Though, it's been years since I've done the one-off thing. With you, it's my fantasy and your moment, so it's glorious, and it deserves playing with every part of me I can reach. I don't want to remember this as a missed opportunity to have a finger in all the places I wanted a finger."

She was gasping. Moaning softly. Her mouth went back over his cock, and he groaned out loud - he was still sensitive, but it felt so _good_.

He knew sounds were coming out of his mouth.

  
If anyone was in earshot, they probably heard him.

  
He wasn't sure how long he was there, looking down into her eyes - eyes that smiled and danced and promised - while she sucked his cock a second time.

New sensations; feelings more intense than he'd ever felt, wracked him. He couldn't help but move this time. His hands were still in her hair, and his moved without thought. His vision was blurry - he was seeing without seeing.

  
He wasn't sure what sounds came out of either of them. He was just aware of the sound, but his mind was completely focused on what he felt, what she was doing to him.

He could feel his cock going in and out of her mouth - faster and harder than the first time. He wasn't sure if he was moving or she was moving, or they were both moving.

  
He just knew when she came - he saw her body tense; he felt her hand speed up, and he felt her moans around him again, vibrating that place just under the head of his cock -

_I’m going to cum again._

He might have managed to gasp out a warning to her. He couldn't be sure. He knew he tried to.

Her hand stroking the base of his cock sped up, and she pulled her head back - and he felt himself erupt a second time, his whole body jerking and shuddering. His hips lifted him off the bench, and he saw splashes of cum land on her face -  
Her tongue lapping out, catching what fell into her mouth as streams painted her face.

She licked her lips, smirking proudly - looking very pleased with herself.

_Did she just do that on purpose?_

He sagged back against the wall, gasping, as she rose, bare feet sliding on the cold, smooth marble, obviously smugly satisfied as she grinned mischievously at him.

"Now that was a moment."

_And now I really need a smoke._

She reached back and grabbed her clutch, producing a cloth out of it. It was the same material as her dress, but that didn't surprise him. Not really.

She wiped her face and neck and chest - covered in his cum and her own saliva. He couldn't help but stare at her nude body as his cock slowly relaxed, becoming comfortably flaccid, but still tingling with the last arcs and shocks of his second orgasm.

  
She reached out a hand, slick with her own juice, and touched his lips gently. His tongue came out to clean them, but she pulled her hand away - and slid her fingers into her own mouth, licking them clean.

He swore he felt his cock twitch just watching that, but he knew there was no way he could get hard again anytime soon.

  
"Hmm. Thank you, Harry. Thank you for letting me give you a moment. Thank you for saving us all. And thank you for not turning me away and making me feel like a fool. Even if I know I was definitely 'too much' tonight."

  
He smiled at her and took her hand in his. He threaded their fingers together. "You're not 'too much.' And -"

"Harry James Potter! What in Merlin's name are you doing?"

Harry winced. He knew that voice. He knew that scolding tone.

  
He didn't even turn to look. "Hello, Hermione."

The woman turned, putting her hands on her hips, making no attempt to cover herself. "He was getting his cock sucked. What does it look like? I suppose now that you're here, the chances of me getting properly fucked and buggered are pretty well shot, so thanks for that. Damn near a decade of sexual tension, all saved up for the woman willing to make it fun, give him a little love, and not blab about it, and you couldn't just keep playing politics long enough for me make it really memorable. Rude, Granger, rude."

  
Harry turned, and saw Ron's face - his eyes were wide, and he was struggling not to grin or laugh, obviously torn between supporting his wife and congratulating his best friend.

His less noble nature won. "Merlin, Harry. Wicked way to celebrate."

Well, I did reckon Ron would understand.

The woman laughed. "There! You see, Harry? Even your best friend agrees - you deserve a wicked celebration!"

Harry couldn't help but laugh. He was still holding her hand as he pulled her down into his lap. She stumbled, giggled, and found herself with Harry's arms around her waist. Her arms snaked around his neck and shoulders as he pulled her close, very aware she was still naked.

(And quite pleased by it. Somehow, Ron and Hermione seeing her unashamedly nude was almost as satisfying as having had his cock sucked during a Ministry of Magic ceremony.)

_More revelations about myself._

He was also realizing he wanted to find out even more. To explore more.

With her.

_I have really got to find a way to ask her who she is, because I don't think not remembering her is going to go over real well._

"Thank you, Ron. It _was_ wicked."

Hermione shoved Ron's shoulder. "You're no help!"

Ron laughed. "I'm okay with that. Really, I am!"

Hermione huffed and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Harry! Romilda! Get. Dressed. Clean yourselves up! I - I don't even know what to say about this - this - display!"

  
Ron had told Harry more than once how worried he was about how alone his best friend was. Even if it was just a tryst at a party Harry hadn't wanted to be at, it was better than him hiding and smoking and moping.

So Ron poked his wife in the side. "That we should have thought of it first? Shagging during a Ministry shindig isn't new to either of us, but these little hallways are a lot nicer than I thought."

Hermione blushed, and Romilda laughed, craning her neck to look at the other girl.

"And a lot more useful! Usually, I just ambush Ministry officials in these hallways. This was way more fun!" Romilda tilted her head. "Still an ambush, though."

Hermione looked like she couldn't decide whether to scowl or give in to an inappropriate desire to laugh.

Ron tugged on her arm. "Come on, Hermione. Let's go distract everyone while they clean up or finish up. It's not like they aren't grown adults. They can shag if they want. You can be offended and scandalized and worried later, I promise. I'll even promise not to argue with you until you're done being outraged."

Hermione was both blushing and stammering as Ron led her back down the hall.

"Romilda Vane, huh?"

She tucked her head against his neck, with her arms around him, and made a small whimpering sound. "Yes?"

Harry's eyebrows went up. He _did_ remember the name. "Didn't you…"

Her whimper got a bit more pathetic. There was a definite hitch in her voice.

  
"Yes. Cauldron Cakes. Love potion. Bad idea. Sorry. Teenage me is dumber than adult me, but just as slutty. Teenage me didn't understand it was pretty ethically bad and really, really bad for all kinds of other reasons that are really, really important to adult me. Like consent and mutual attraction. I didn't think. I didn't know. I just knew I wanted - well, I've always been too much…"

Harry laughed softly, his palm rubbing circles into her back. "You're provisionally forgiven. I can't even talk about most of my Hogwarts escapades…and you were fourteen. We can talk about it later, I promise. Privately. Where there are fewer keen ears."

She sat back up, her arms still around him. "Harry, if you'd eaten those and come to find me, you wouldn't have been able to say 'no' to anything I wanted. It could have been…"

Harry put a finger over her mouth. "It was bad. It was stupid. It could have gone really bad. I know better than most the possible cost of love potions.”

 _Voldemort, for example._ He'd often wondered if Merope Gaunt had ever regretted what she'd done. If she'd ever understood what she had done.

"But you've kept all those pesky ethics. Even learned from them. Tonight, you seduced me. Just you. Just me. No potions. No awkward dates at pink tea houses."

"Hey!" She playfully slapped his chest. "I liked Madam Puddifoot's, and I never got to go on a date there!"

Harry lifted them both to their feet, quickly re-dressing himself. He noticed she made no move to put her dress back on.

  
He had to admit, he didn’t mind. She was gorgeous.

_And maybe?_

He grabbed her by the hips, and backed her up, pressing her against the office door at the end of the hallway.

She gasped, her hips thrusting forward against him. Her arm went back around his neck and she breathed against his cheek.

"What's this now? Not that I mind."

It was his turn to kiss her, slowly and deliberately. It was his turn to look her right in the eye, defiant and daring.

"What if I want more than just one moment? What if I want to celebrate you, too? The first honest reporter I've ever met."

She groaned softly as his thumbs rubbed circles into her skin. As his hands slid up her sides. Her back arched and she pushed herself up on the balls of her feet, sucking in a gasp of her own.

She smiled at him, her fingers playing across the skin of his neck. "Do you now?"

He reached one hand up to cup her cheek. "What if I do, Romilda?" He leaned in closer, his lips hovering over hers. "What if I want to prove that you are not 'too much? Maybe find out if we can have a lot more moments. Some about you. Some about me. Some about us."

She whimpered again, and she pressed her face into his neck, and took in a deep breath.

"Please. Please, please, do not be playing with me. Please. Please, please do not be just wanting a shag. I'll do that happily, if that's what you want, but what you're saying…"

Harry lifted her face up. "I don't know you. You don't know me. Let's fix that. Let's have more moments while we do. Let's have some of those experiences we haven't had yet. Hell, I'll even take you to the pink tea house. But I want…"

"Yes!" She practically knocked him over as she pushed off the wall, bouncing. "Yes."

Harry laughed. "Good. So, now what?"

She turned him, scooting so she could grab her clutch and hook her dress with her foot. "You can Apparate out of here, right? Because you're Harry Potter?"

"Well, no. I can do it because I know how to get past the wards, but a portkey is a lot easier."

He held up his wand and tapped it against her necklace. The gem flashed blue.

"But we're going to a muggle hotel. I am not going anywhere in the wizarding world tonight."

Romilda looked over her shoulder at the sound of footsteps and voices coming down the hall. Too many to be just Ron and Hermione coming back.

"Then let's go! Before some other devoted fangirl makes a better offer!"

Harry laughed. “Somehow, I don’t see that happening. But I'm all for avoiding the gossip and less-than-ethical quills of your fellow journalists.”

"Well, since I'm not going to write about you, I'm not going to let them write about you, either. Let's go find a bed, room service, and more people to scandalize!"

Harry laughed as he put a finger on her necklace; the portkey pulled at them, and the Ministry vanished in a swirl of light. 

###### ~end~


End file.
